


Verbena

by CorsetJinx



Category: Final Fantasy II, Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magic, Magic Meta, long fic, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When plans do not go accordingly, Emperor Mateus faces trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Verbena

It had been decided in the aftermath of the battle that he would be put in shackles, on display at the very balcony of his palace he’d once put prisoners for the same purpose. So that all could see their defeat, their disgrace, and know his might. Now, it was he being made example of as two of the four rebels who’d stormed the palace brought him up from where he’d tumbled after the battle. One of them was a mountain of muscle, a broad, square-jawed face and deep-set eyes. The other was shorter, though not by much – more lean and streamlined than the man carrying a double-headed axe on his back.

The slimmer man carried a spear and wore the armor of the Dragoons of Deist, the very enemy he’d sought to destroy and prevent from coming here. Beneath the dark metal of his helm, the Dragoon smiled, mirthless and thin. Even with his senses addled from the battle, the utter shock at his own weakness and failure, he could well guess who the smiling blond was.

He caught a glimpse of the other two as the Dragoon and the sedate giant hauled him up, aggravating various wounds that splattered droplets of red onto the fine marble floor. A silver-haired youth helping a woman with purple hair up from the ground, one of his hands moving in the precise motions of a curative spell. He didn’t get the chance to see the spell’s effectiveness, although from the spike in the young man’s mana he could estimate that the lad possessed some measure of skill with the craft.

“To think you’ll be hanging in your own chains, awaiting someone else’s leisure.” The Dragoon’s baritone voice filled his ears, deep and slightly winded. This close, it hurt his ears. Worse still was the laugh that followed, dark and bitter. “I suppose their Princess will see you live long enough for trial, though why she might bother is beyond me. The world lies in ruins, and your name on every bit of rubble.”

Several retorts came to mind, driven from his thoughts a moment later a jarring pain echoing up one leg. The gasp left him without permission, though it came through clenched teeth.

Sunlight burned into his eyes as the wind’s clever fingers plucked at his hair that had come loose form its binding, tiny flashes of silver further serving as a blinder. In the short march to the shackles he imagined that a trail of blood may have been left from their progress, though it would be easy to confuse the smell from the rebels on either side of him with it.

The larger man held him while the Dragoon opened the shackles, thick lengths of chain in dark metal meant to soak heat from the constant sunlight of the area – too smooth for prisoners to hope to end their pain early by chafing their wrists on the cuff until they bled. He sagged forward with gravity’s pull when the big one released him, hair falling around him as if to hide the furious heat riding his cheeks.

“What? No glib words from the dethroned Emperor? No cutting remark?” The Dragoon was pushing, riding a high of temporary, empty victory and the remains of a Haste spell quickening his blood.

“Hurt.” The word startled him, more-so because the giant had finally broken his silence rather than the deep voice that made the statement. Both he and the Dragoon looked at the axeman, though he only tilted his head enough to glimpse the craggy face. “Not speak because of pride.”

That drew a snort from the blond man, no attempt made to hide its derisive nature.

“It makes no difference. The Empire is fallen, either way.”

“Do you truly believe that this changes anything, you fool?” He had to push the words out with some effort, forcing his bleary gaze to steady on the Dragoon’s suddenly expressionless face – or what could be seen of it. “Whatever victory you believe you have achieved is pointless. Not even Baron has the ability to lift the world off its feet from this.” 

A smirk touched the edge of his lips, a bit of his old energy returning.

It was worth it, to see Richard Highwind’s lip curl.

In a softer, almost gentle tone, he returned the earlier jabs with one of his own.

“Do you believe they will allow the remains of your people to heal and prosper once more? With the advent of their airships to replace the wyverns in the sky?”

Even with the helmet on, he could easily see the rage that gripped the man. Highwind moved to take a step towards him, fingers twitching as if to grasp the lance waiting patiently on his broad back. The giant stopped him, one large hand nearly swallowing Highwind’s own, deep voice uttering a simple “stop”.

To his surprise, it worked – though the Dragoon pushed off the hand holding him back with a grunt. For a long moment, the man simply stared and he did his best to lift his chin defiantly. A smirk twisted the blond’s mouth once more, harsher than the one previous.

“It matters not. In days your blood will be on the stones and one less tyrant in the world.” Highwind took a step forward, leaning close so that he had to draw back lest the other touch him. It made the other’s smirk grow, almost deepening into a smile. “Do try and live that long, Mateus,” the use of his given name rankled him, and the Dragoon took obvious pleasure from it, “I, for one, will enjoy it immensely.”

“That same lust for blood is what will lose you the apple of your allies’ eye, Highwind.” He pushed back, narrowing his eyes both to reduce the glare from the rebel’s armor and to prove his point. “There is no use to a dragon if it cannot keep to a leash.”

“Keep your petty words. You’ve no power for them any longer.” Highwind righted himself, stepping back and turning to depart. The giant whose name he still didn’t know, didn’t care to, slowly followed suit, the heaviness of his steps reverberating up his legs until he’d gone far enough away for it not to jar him any longer.

Thin fingers curled, long nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. Small splashes of red still decorated the stone beneath him – even a Cure spell was beyond him at the moment and for all his rage, the metal of the shackles was beyond his strength.

He relaxed his hands very slowly, deliberately, pushing aside the roiling mess of emotions in favor of simply inhaling, then exhaling when his lungs started to burn. Sunlight continued to beat down, as it would for hours yet. From the ruins of Fynn to his palace, if some fool were to make the attempt on foot, it would take weeks. By airship, less – perhaps two days journey there, two back.

If he managed a rest, he could regain some measure of his power and heal himself – though that still left the problem of the bindings themselves. Too snug to slip out of, even with his sleeves spattered with his own ichor. At his strongest, he could freeze them perhaps… but the effort would drain him dry.

His stomach turned, disgust and unease in warring measures with himself and the situation, but leant his head forward all the same. The chain’s length kept him from touching the ground, though his shoulders would begin to ache soon. A bitter laugh welled up inside him, falling past red-speckled lips to fill the air around him.

Rest. Whatever he could get of it, and then he could plan.

-

The silver-haired youth had expressed his surprise loudly enough to wake him, and he found his eyes straining to see in the evening dark. Under normal circumstances there would be a guard and torches, only now a scant amount of light came from the stars and moon – enough to light on and reflect from the lad’s armor and glint in his pale hair. Obviously the boy had expected him to look worse, or perhaps be dead from his injuries, and he couldn’t quite resist sparing the other a depreciating look from beneath his lashes.

“You healed yourself.” There wasn’t as much surprise remaining in the other’s voice, and he found himself grudgingly thankful the lad hadn’t raised his voice.

“Did you expect me to bleed out on the stones, little worm?” It was easier to mock the wary tone the boy was using when he managed to straighten himself, suppressing a wince at the shift of his shoulders and newly-sunburnt skin. His hair, come further loose, prickled where it touched his skin.

“It might have been better if you had.” Anger laced the boy’s voice, hinting at something more vitriolic underneath. “Then no one would have to hear you speak any longer.”

“Learn that from your wingless dragon friend, did you?” He chuckled, savoring the flicker of rage the lad couldn’t quite conceal. “If you wish to intimidate me, you are wasting your time. Say what you will or leave me be.”

“You aren’t in any position to give orders anymore!” Very like his companion earlier in the day, he took a step forward, not quite so close as the Dragoon had but the lad’s hands were shaking enough that he could see it – the fickle-sweet churn of rage filtering through his mage’s senses.

The boy hated him, perhaps as much as the Highwind did.

“And you have nothing to hold over me.” He allowed a measure of coldness to creep into his voice, enjoying the wince it brought to the youth’s eye. A part of him wondered – with the youth’s coloring, if there were any chance of there being Lunarian blood in him. He filed it away for later, stepping forward as much as the chains allowed and peering down his nose at the Wild Rose Rebellion’s little ‘hero’. “Whatever threats you have been saving up for this day are for naught. Say them, if you wish, but you will find me unmoved by the hissing of insects.”

The strike was sudden, decently quick enough for a young man like him and a relative lack of formal training. If he hadn’t been bound, it would have been easy to avoid – as it was the blow merely grazed him once he’d stepped back and felt the chains relax their tension.

Deep, loud breaths gave further hint to the poisonous mix of emotions the lad had likely been suppressing to this point. He waited with narrowed eyes for the next swing, should it come.

It didn’t.

The rebel group’s leader stepped back, as though forcing himself to before he did something else. Nothing else was said as the lad stalked away, shoulders tight and hands curled to fists as his sides. Moonlight danced over the myriad of weapons the youth carried, sapping silver hair into white briefly before the figure was lost to his sight.

Good riddance.

He closed his eyes wearily, flexing his fingers slowly to restore some measure of blood flow, reaching inside to test the shallow reserves of his magic. The shimmer of a Cure lit the area around him briefly, brighter than any torch, and he wondered how the imbeciles might have missed it in the first place. The pain eased from his side, his shoulders less heavy although the relief wouldn’t last for long. The wounds that had had him spilling blood earlier were now closed, though patches of stiff cloth dug into his skin.

It would do, for now.

His mind turned deeper inward, seeking something else – the trait learned by every Lunarian for when the time came for sleep deeper than the normal means. The idea that he had been nursing for hours bloomed brilliantly in his mind’s eye once more, the words necessary for the act running through the fading of his conscious thought. Even if the Princess of Fynn reached his palace before he’d gathered enough power to do as he planned, it wouldn’t matter. A trial would take time, resources to pull together – longer still if they waited for an emissary from the sister-kingdom of Baron.

He slept, body supported only by the shackles which bound him.

-

Princess Hilda looked livelier than she had when she had been a guest in his dungeons, though he only caught a glimpse of her as she walked the length of the room which led to his throne. She did not spare a glance back, spine straight and regal as his own had been normally – behavior a remnant of countless drills in etiquette and expectations. The rebel group that had defeated him were close by as they trailed after her, a glimpse of golden hair and a red cloak confirming that the only remaining heir of Kashuan was in attendance.

A smirk tugged at his lips, even though he felt them crack a little more with the action. His throat was dry and his skin burned, now a bright pink in some places, and direct sunlight felt like daggers to the eyes. He turned away from the council slowly amassing behind him, restraining himself from hissing at the sting the movement caused.

Curative magic did little for things not of a certain nature, and he was not fool enough to flaunt his slowly returning magic where others would see. The Princess herself might not have the ability to bind his magic, not with the loss of the white wizard Minwu, but there were other methods her education might have left her privy to.

It was not enough yet to carry out his plan – pleasing as the notion might be to reduce those in the immediate vicinity to dust, to accomplish what he wanted would take more time. Certainly more magic than what he currently possessed.

He was distracted from the thought, and the low simmer of pleasure it brought him, by the feeling of someone else drawing near. Not to him, no, to be so close to such an extensive pool of mana as he was now would be nothing but a torture to his tapped senses – the source was at least a level or so down from his location. They made no attempt to come further up, and he had no means to scry their purpose here without giving himself away.

_Sight_ would be noticeable to the other mage in an instant, regardless of their field of study.

Their presence held his attention for a while longer, his mind blank and fully clear for the first time in days. So long as the distance between them didn’t decrease, he felt confident that even if they were to pry at his mind they would get nothing for their efforts.

The presence withdrew after another hour, slipping further below. The crystals embedded in the walls of his palace sang back to him loyally, announcing the stranger as clearly as if someone had spoken. He could have laughed, truly, for the turn of chance the situation had taken.

One of Kluya’s kin, one well-versed in the black arts – though apparently untrained in the nuances of crystal magicks.

Briefly, he wondered whether the mage had come as the representative of the kingdom that had taken his sibling in – or if his interest was on invitation alone.

He pushed it aside, squinting as he raised his head. The purple haired woman, Maria, her fellows had called her, was emerging from the room behind him – her steps careful but quick. She did not possess the level of magic the one below did – far from it indeed, but it was comparable to that of her silver-haired companion. Her expression, once he perceived it, stirred the budding anger he had been nursing – though it retreated somewhat at the minor quiver in her voice when she spoke.

“The Princess wishes you to speak for yourself before trial. Do you intend to cause trouble?” Dark purple eyes narrowed at him, her posture straight as any soldier’s.

From the door, he could glimpse the figure of Highwind emerging – no doubt to drag him if he proved a nuisance for the lass.

“Should you worms wish to continue this farce, far be it for me to stop you. Entertain yourselves, if you must.” He sneered, ignoring the sting of his lips in favor of watching her expression twitch with anger.

Highwind put a stop to the little game, hands none to gentle when they freed him from the shackles – only to put him in new ones. These, he sensed, had magic interwoven to the metal. A product of Mysidia, he was willing to bet, since it was the only nation which might possess such a thing freely.

What sort of favor had the Princess summoned, he wondered, to get them to turn these tools over?

The throne room was blessedly cool to him, though the stiff posture he remained at only allowed him to enjoy it so much. The Prince of Kashuan glared from his seat, a surprise in itself – the man had been considerably meeker the last time they’d met. He sensed the gazes of the rebel group as well, several faces he did not recognize dispersed throughout the group he eyed from his peripheral vision.

Hilda herself looked almost imposing, seated on his throne. Her eyes had narrowed steadily as the Dragoon marched him forward and he could see the cracks within her chilly mask of queenly indifference.

He was not dead yet, after all.

“Mateus of Palamecia, do you possess any words of penitence for those assembled whom you have wronged?” Her voice carried with measured authority, pleasing enough to the ear.

The use of his given name again rankled him, though he pushed it down.

“Penitence, Princess?” His voice didn’t crack, though the walls of his throat scraped together with every word. He drew himself up, ignoring the Dragoon’s rigid presence just behind him. The look he sent towards Fynn’s ruler made her shoulders stiffen, giving away a hint of suppressed fear. “And for what must I be penitent?”

“You wish for a list, then?” Her tone turned faintly challenging, and a servant was already moving as gestured with one slim hand. Indeed there was a roll of parchment – several, unless his eyes were finally betraying him.

“That will not be necessary.” His lips curled faintly. “I have nothing for which to be penitent about.”

“That is your answer? Before all those who are but a fraction of your victims?” Hilda raised a her chin just a fraction, putting distance between him and her – perhaps between her anger and herself as well.

He met her stare evenly, looking down on her and her attempts to besmirch him.

“None of you are even close to being my equal, Princess. In that alone, none of you are fit or able to judge me.” His voice carried powerfully amongst them, more than he'd thought it would after the past days. On the throne, his throne, she looked no more than a girl. A young woman playing at pretend at a game she did not fully understand.

For a moment, there was silence. A lavender haired woman with kohl around her eyes sneered at nothing in particular, hands at her waist beside a dagger whose hilt gleamed silver. If he entertained the thought of exaggeration, he might have fancied that the sound of Highwind’s teeth grinding might have echoed in the wake of his proclamation.

The remaining Prince of Kashuan looked torn between discomfort and offense.

“If that is all you have to say, then you shall be returned to your imprisonment to await trial.” The note of finality in the Princess' voice made him almost recall her father, when he had been in good health. Surely it was a display that would have made the old king proud, since he'd loved his only child so.

Highwind’s hand at his shoulder was firm, fingers digging deliberately into the sensitive skin so as to make him recoil. He shrugged the hand off in spite of the twinge the action caused, walking with his own feet back towards the balcony.

The meeting couldn't have lasted that long, but the sun made him wince once he stepped out the door – the air warm and uncomfortable, making the layers of his clothes seem heavier. He refused to wince when the Dragoon shackled him again, meeting the glare sent from beneath metal and glass coolly before looking past the armored man and out over the mountains of Palamecia.

“And you say my pride will be my downfall.” The huff was bitterly amused, hot breath briefly ghosting over his skin.

He kept his lips fixed in a smirk, watching the last wyvern stretch its wings as it soared.

-

The trial was set. Meant to be a gathering of peers of the nations to judge the weight of his actions, his so-called 'crimes', and find an appropriate punishment. He'd been allowed the chance to wash, a boon he'd enjoyed immensely. He was watched of course, by the giant whose name had been uttered once or twice. Gus, such a simple moniker. It suited the fellow.

A clanking of armor announced the coming of the one meant to escort him – the familiar sound all the more so because he had heard it every day for the past three years. The sound came to a stop and he turned to face the source, feeling his eyes widen a slight bit at the sight of the Dark Knight.

“I had thought you to be in the company of your Princess. Has she already cast you aside, Lionheart?” Tilting his head, he saw the answering movement of armor as if the knight were still mirroring his actions from the first weeks of their encounters.

“I am to bring you to trial.” Leon's voice echoed dully from within the helmet, no longer quite so emotionless as it had been. The man shifted, meeting his gaze where once he would have looked down at his feet. “Anything else, her Majesty is to decide.”

“Clever.” He allowed himself to remark, standing slowly. “You remember a bit of my lessons then.”

“Some.” The word leaves the armored man grudgingly, but Leon stands at attention as he approaches. They leave the room in silence, the heavier tread behind him not so out of place. Had it been a matter of days ago, it would have been the norm.

The crystals in the halls sing to him, telling him of all that have come and gone. The Princess has paced long into the night – not a bit of it will show on her face, he is sure. Other news filters through as they walk – the lavender haired woman and her unease with his palace, a new arrival that now stands with the others in the room chosen for this little game.

Leon moved forward and opens the doors, faces turn and regard them, him specifically, as he is ushered towards the stand in the center of the room. Odin of Baron arranges his face into a neutral scowl, lips turning downward at the corners. Gordon of Kashuan sat by Hilda of Fynn, appropriate, considering the closeness of their nations. The Elder of Mysidia, her eyes dark under the waves of her hair, glared at him as he took his place. Richard Highwind of Deist occupied a seat to the Elder's left, missing his helm and some of his armor, lance not to be seen. There were seats left empty, he noticed, two set slightly apart from the others on Odin's other side.

“This morning marks the beginning of your trial, Mateus of Palamecia.” Hilda rose, resplendent in her gown of white and gold, her crown as the ruler of Fynn missing for this occasion. She saw fit to give him a long, measuring look which he answered with one of his own, paying no heed to the eyes of others in the room.

The rebels were absent, though no doubt somewhere close by. Leon moved to stand just behind the Princess, arms at his sides, Deathbringer at his hip. Odin had a guard of his own, and a boy – the snowy pale hair and violet eyes were an immediate giveaway, even if he had not known of the lad's name. The boy pursed his lips pensively, taking his cues from the King at his side and from others in the room. Just old enough, he surmised, to be in attendance – Odin had no children of his own, after all.

“You are allowed to make a statement now, should you wish to present your case.” The Princess of Fynn did not allow her expression to change, but she must have resented the words. The notion of giving him a chance to defend himself, with all his enemies present.

The Elder folded her hands, schooling her gently lined face into careful neutrality. Gordon of Kashuan frowned, yet made no attempt to speak. He looked very like his father, merely without the years that had painted the man into an old age. Odin and his charge didn't move, though he felt the slight prickle of the lad's curiosity.

“You are gracious, Hilda of Fynn.” She was not quite quick enough to stop the narrowing of her eye, he noted, but he continued on without pressing the amusement of it. “Before your assembled number I have only this to say. None of you are fit to judge me, save perhaps,” his eyes skipped over Odin's figure entirely, looking with a minor pleasure on the surprised youth's face, “for one.” His eyes left the boy's to bore into Odin's. “Though that particular individual is not present.”

“You've no right to speak of this as though you were above it.” Odin's broad hands pressed against the table, dark eyes fierce. “You are stripped of your rank, your lands, yet act as though you may still stand above us all. Unbecoming, for one who has selfishly and, unrepentantly I might add, made enemies of all the world.”

“Odin.” The Elder's voice cut off what might have been the next part of a tirade, faint accents of the coast of Mysidia prevalent in her authoritative tone.

The man settled, with some apparent difficulty. 

“If that is all you wish to say, then we shall proceed.” Hilda's voice held more of a chill, creeping frost over the remaining heat of Odin's outburst. When he turned his attention to her, she held a sheaf of parchment in her hands. She set her shoulders, eyes dropping from him to the text before her, lips parting to begin reading.

Her tone remained steady as she recounted the deeds he'd committed, retold in ink, starting with the first of his atrocities against those assembled. There was the faintest change in her inflection when she reached the crimes he'd committed against her own kingdom, Gordon's eyes briefly lifting to glance at the Princess' profile as she continued on. He tuned out her words after that, interest no longer held by the fluctuation in her presentation.

Highwind watched him, conspicuously silent up to this point. Without the helm he could see the faint trails of gray that mingled with blond tresses, the lines which made the Dragoon look potentially older than he was. The man's blue-violet eyes narrowed when he met them briefly, hostility clearly visible within their pale depths.

The Elder of Mysidia spoke only once when the Princess paused, cleverly using the chance to raise the theft of several tomes of magic from the Great Library to the court's attention. Odin's charge couldn't keep the surprise from his face at that, eyes wide as his blue tinted lips parted. He could almost chuckle from the sight, instead curving his own mouth into a smirk. Odin drew his thick brows together once he noticed, scowling deeply.

There was a longer, nearly pregnant pause when the list was complete. Princess Hilda set the documents aside, fingertips resting lightly on the wood of the table as she gathered herself. When she raised her gaze it was to stare directly at him, lips drawing thin as she braced herself. “Now would be the time to offer your own statement in your defense, if you have one.”

“I did what I believed to be necessary to show mankind their weakness.” He stated without flourish. “Your kind are skilled in dealing in violence and false justice, unfit to learn the arts of magic that the Lunarians have gifted you with.”

Before the Princess could respond, or any of them could, the door behind him opened. A simple, quiet click, accompanied by the rustle of robes and a voice he'd thought he would not hear for some time to come.

“That is not your decision to make, Mateus.”

The assembled council all wore varying expressions of surprise, wariness in the case of Highwind, Odin of Baron and the Elder of Mysidia seeming the least opposed to the newcomer. He remained frozen for a moment longer before turning as well, willing aside the mote of trepidation that stirred in his chest.

Fusoya stood out as an intimidating sight – taller than everyone else in the room by more than a mere margin, the front of his form almost lost except for the long expanse of snowy beard. The sharp angles of his face appeared more stern than he last recalled, keen violet eyes sweeping once over the room before settling on him. The taller Lunarian's hands were lost in the wide sleeves of his pale robes, emerging only briefly as the older male folded them as he stepped into the room.

Another figure followed close behind, clad in simple black that contrasted with Fusoya's soft blue-violet. Hair the same as the elder mage's, as the boy seated beside the King of Baron, eyes the same shade of violet so prevalent amongst the Lunarians. The younger male followed Fusoya as the man walked further into the room, hem of his robe whispering over the floor.

It took a moment to gather his voice, the memory of sensing the vast mana pool days previous clicking together smoothly now in his mind. “You, of all here, would be the most foolish to try and deny it, Fusoya.”

The jibe earned him a sidelong glance from beneath wide, furrowed brows. Fusoya didn't respond further, turning to face the curious stares of the council. In particular, that of Odin. “I am sorry to have kept you. It took longer than expected to gain entry.”

“You've arrived just in time, friend.” A brief smile lightened the King's face and the brunet stood, his charge fluidly doing the same.

The boy couldn't seem to keep from staring curiously at the Lunarian elder and the tanned monk beside him, recognition stirring in his expression after a moment of thoughtfulness. Fusoya inclined his head, turning when Highwind spoke up.

“Care to tell who your friend is, Your Majesty? Not all of us are bosom companions with... whatever he is.” The Dragoon's eloquence apparently failed him in finding an appropriate term, earning him an amused glance from the Lunarian himself. The King and Gordon both spared a look meant to reprimand at the survivor of Deist, only to have it ignored.

“I am known as Fusoya. I watch over the Lunarian's sleep on what you know as the second moon.” By contrast, the mage's voice was nearly gentle. Hands still folded within his sleeves, he turned to each person watching and inclined his head to them, pausing briefly at the sight of Odin's charge.

He caught the flicker of pain on the elder mage's face, and the perplexed concern on the boy's face that appeared in response. Fusoya's companion remained silent, muscular arms folded across a bare, broad chest. 

“With me is the eldest son of my brother, Kluya. He is learning the arts of magic as my pupil.” Fusoya concluded, turning away from the youth. He faced Princess Hilda, voice no less gentle but with an undertone of authority. “I too have come to list the crimes my fellow has committed. Against our own people and those of the Blue Planet.”

He felt himself scowl at that, eyeing how Hilda considered the information given, then, slowly, nodded. Uncertainty lingered at the edges of her expression, but she does not seem overeager to question the presence of one that Odin would appear to readily vouch for. Gordon only seemed marginally less convinced, where the Mysidia's Elder was the most satisfied. Highwind remained skeptical, yet only leaned back in his seat, tracking Fusoya's progress around the table like a hawk.

Kluya's eldest son pulled out a seat for his teacher and the elder Lunarian took it only after all others had sat. The monk appeared content to stand, joining Leon at his post by the wall.

He could spot a muscle twitching briefly in the neck of Odin's charge, as if the boy wanted to turn and watch the other man but refrained, likely for propriety's sake.

“Mateus.”

His attention slowly returned to the older male and he kept his face clear of any emotion as Fusoya looked him over. All eyes were on them, he sensed, and he knew that at least some were likely curious as to the familiar use of his given name.

He was not entirely sure what the look in the older mage's eyes was, but disappointment was present in there as well. It nearly brought a mocking sigh up from his chest, that the guardian of the Lunarian's sleep could still be so soft.

“What are your allegations, Fu So Ya?” It did not go unnoticed, the use of the elder's proper name. “You did not, I believe, dredge up your sibling's ship just to come here and play aggrieved nursemaid.”

Odin's expression turned thunderous for a moment but he didn't speak. The Elder of Mysidia looked affronted on Fusoya's behalf, yet the man himself gave no sign of being so easily prickled.

“I did not, on that you are correct.” Long, pale hands made their appearance, the beds of the nails tinted a paler shade of blue than he remembered. Fusoya let them rest almost idly on the table's surface, straightening almost minutely. When he spoke, all familiarity had gone from his voice, leaving only solemn authority. It was the kind of tone others in the room had tried for, fallen just short of in many ways. “You have strayed far from your original mission on this Planet. Grown bitter, I see.”

There was an astute twinkle in the older man's eye that he instantly disliked, for its intelligence as much as the judgment behind it.

“I adapted in ways that others did not.” He coolly responded, meeting the other's gaze. “I have been on this Planet longer than anyone else.”

“Indeed.” Fusoya nodded, beard swelling and shifting with the motion. “Long enough to spread your knowledge, and now you've cultivated a nation at your fingertips. Yet you have waged war upon those you once offered to teach.” Bushy white brows drew together – unbidden it called to his mind the memory of his own tutelage in magic, the expression the elder wore when they came to a curious impasse previously unforeseen.

“The years are long, Guardian, when you do not possess the option of sleeping through them.” A lick of spite barbed the words, drawing Fusoya's frown deeper. Behind the sage, Kluya's eldest shifted but once.

“It does not excuse what you have done, Mateus.” Disappointment slipped its leash and Fusoya's shoulders sagged just barely. “Not only have you violated the rules we set in place so as not to disrupt the course of life on the Blue Planet, you have reached far beyond your means in the attempt to destroy it. Stolen magic meant for humans and their development alone.” Something dark shifted in Fusoya's eyes at that – anger, perhaps?

“It is the action I would expect from someone else, were he not already imprisoned.” Whatever emotion he'd glimpsed in the sage's eyes carried into the normally gentle voice, turning it to steel.

For once, Odin looked less than confident – obviously in the dark as to what they were discussing. Others of the council looked visibly uncomfortable at the many turns, keenly aware that this had grown far beyond them and their ephemeral affairs of state. Even his once loyal Dark Knight had shifted, the scrape of his armor giving the movement away.

“Do not compare me to such a low-minded fool as that.” He narrowed his eyes, fingers curling to grasp the stand before him. His tone dipped, a velvet hiss of suppressed venom. “I have given mankind their chance and more, witnessed their failures to learn again and again. When they would not learn, I sought other pupils to teach, and when the insects aspired to take my power from me I taught them a lesson that wouldn't be forgotten.”

“And that is your reason for causing such destruction?” Fusoya doubted him, that much was obvious. “To think of them as so beneath you humankind might as well be insects?”

“They _are_ beneath me, Fu So Ya.” He lifted his chin a hair, continuing to dismiss the stares about the room. “Just as they are beneath you, regardless of Klu Ya's luck. Without a culling, the people of this Planet would only repeat the tragedy until we are driven off or dead beneath their heel.”

“With thoughts such as that, you pave the way for such a future.” Fusoya closed his eyes, weariness flickering across his lined face.

He chuckled at the show, relaxing his grip on the stand almost absentmindedly. Leaning his weight slightly back onto his heels, he peered at the sage from beneath his lashes. “And what is to be your judgment then, old one? These worms,” a gesture encompassed the room, from the tight-lipped Princess to the fuming Dragoon of Deist, “would no doubt see me executed for their meaningless sense of justice. A sword, perhaps, or the noose.” He scoffed, feeling his lips twist faintly. “From there, who might divine their fate?”

He raised a hand leisurely, directing a finger at the center of Odin's figure. “Baron has not suffered nearly as great as others present here, gaining military power even before I set my plans into motion. What is to stop the order from their King, a friend once offering a boon of assistance, to turn his hand so as to strike?”

Odin started to rise in his seat, his charge not far behind, but he moved on – locking a cool gaze with the troubled one of the Mysidian Elder. “The center of magic is a gem that every nation covets, whether it be for knowledge or it's sibling, power.” A smirk touched his lips, “With the loss of Minwu, what is to shield the Tower or the Great Library from being taken by force? If not Baron, there are others.”

“You spin a fair tale, sir, but your reach remains a figment of your own imagination.” Odin's boy finally spoke and at once there could be not doubt as to who his true father was. He sounded every bit as Kluya had, once, authority and gentleness evenly balanced. Violet eyes fixed on him as their owner's blue lips pressed thin. “Baron would not turn against her allies as you so flippantly speak.”

Fusoya's expression seemed almost pained for a moment, then it smoothed over as though it had never been. From behind the sage, an identical pair of eyes bored into the back of the boy's snowy head.

He laughed, soft and a little cruel, enjoying the bemusement which filled the lad's face. “Ever the optimist you are. Do you believe all your surrogate patron tells you, boy?”

“Mateus.” A warning rose in Fusoya's voice, long fingers drawing up like pale mountains on the tabletop. “You misuse your gift with words. This has gone on long enough.”

“Pass judgment then, fool.” He shot back, returning the sage's stare with a narrow one of his own. “Your preaching has just as little place here.”

That seemed to spark the Princess into action, her thoughts and impressions of this argument tucked behind a mask of cool nothingness. She stood, drawing the gaze of most in the room, lifting a hand to stop Gordon from rising as well.

“Then you have nothing else to say, Mateus of Palamecia? No words of defense or agreement to terms?” The finality in her tone might have been admirable, if he were any less than what he was. Still, he supposed, it was commendable she hadn't simply taken a sword from a guard and attempted to run him through herself.

It must have featured in her dreams at least once, he was sure.

“Nothing.” He said, tone akin to that of an instructor answering a question a child asked when they too knew the outcome.

“We proceed then.” She gave no reaction to his response, turning to each of those seated alongside her in equal measure. “Among you, what do you believe to be a punishment befitting the actions spoken of this day?”

Highwind spoke first, beating Odin by a narrow margin. “If this were in Deist his disgrace would be made visible to all. Cut his hair as short as his crimes are severe, remove rank and name from him. For this,” eyes of a darker violet narrowed, a grimness settling about the Dragoon's mouth, “execution would not be unheard of.”

“Much the same of Baron.” Odin added, leaning back in his seat just a hair, one broad hand stroking his dark beard.

“Kashuan would see the distribution of the estates concerned,” Gordon spoke at last, soft at first before gaining strength. “The deposition of a sovereign is no light matter – but if the accused is unwilling or unable to repent their crimes then they would have their choice of a private or public execution, if exile is not an option.”

“Fynn stands much the same.” Hilda's lips hardly moved as she spoke, but her eyes were cold.

“Mysidia binds the magic of those who are deemed too dangerous to be allowed freedom with it.” The Elder supplied, folding her hands gently. Her gaze slipped to Fusoya's profile, considering, before she continued. “We do not usually believe in such a punishment as death, for we have not often faced such a choice. At worst, lifelong imprisonment – though in this case such might be out of the question.”

Fusoya, more than gracious even in his age, turned towards her at the question in her voice.

“You call Mateus of Palamecia one of your own people, am I correct?” Her tone shifted, a question posed to one that she deemed greater than herself. Polite and inquiring, but without nervous hesitation.

She must have been quite the student herself, once.

“You are.” The elderly guardian nodded, hands long relaxed from the tension his words had given them. “Mateus will long outlive everyone present this day, as is the case of our people. If imprisoned, it would require utmost care.”

“Which only you can provide, I imagine?” Gordon's thumbs brushed against each other as he moved them, the rest of his fingers interlaced informally. There was only genuine curiosity in the young Prince's voice, where with another it might have been taken for snideness.

“I can, though it may not be in the manner you might wish.” Wariness haunted the edges of Fusoya's expression, but he faced the rest of the council without casting his eyes aside as others might have. “It does not escape me that he has done irreparable wrong to you and your kingdoms. Yet I must confess that I am unwilling to turn Mateus to the blades of the Blue Planet.”

“Unwilling?” Highwind straightened to his full height, though it brought him no closer to Fusoya in those terms. Something others would consider dangerous lurked in the Dragoon's tone, even as the man sought to marshal it. “And by that you would see him unbound and free?”

His own scoff drew a glare from Deist's survivor and the King of Baron, but the elder sage was calm as ever.

“Certainly not. Binding his magic will reduce the threat he poses to everyone and that, I am willing to agree to do.” The Lunarian's fingers steepled and he fixed a steady look over them at each head of state. “Further punishment beyond that, I would rather keep between myself and those immediately involved.”

Highwind’s mouth turned downwards unhappily, but it was the Elder of Mysidia that ventured an inquiry.

“What measures would be taken to keep this from repeating itself? I mean no offense, but taking your word as it stands is...” her expression shuttered, momentarily at a loss.  
“You wish to know that he will not be able to convince another to free him so that he might pursue revenge.” A low bass voice entered the conversation, drawing nearly everyone's eyes, including his own, towards the black-clad man standing behind Fusoya. The younger man's face remained impassive at the attention, arms loosely folded across his chest.

“Yes.” The Elder's voice was soft, still somewhat surprised at the turn of conversation. Gordon, even Odin's, heads inclined faintly in agreement.

“We will take Mateus into our company and bind not only his magic but his consciousness into the Lunarian's sleep.” Fusoya supplied the words with only a trace of weariness, showing no change at his companion's interjection. “Once that has been sufficiently secured, he will return with me to what you know as the second moon; far from the reach and influence of the Blue Planet.”

He suppressed the slight creep of dread at the words, choosing instead to watch the dawning comprehension on the other's faces.

“And you can keep him there?” Odin's charge tilted his head, unfortunately at an angle where he could not see the look on the androgynous features. The lad sounded bemused, and slightly awed.

Fusoya's eyes turned soft when he looked at the lad, once more raising the question in his own mind if Odin had ever told the boy his true heritage.

“I can, child. It is a method used before to contain another, though I take no joy or pleasure in it.”

The words seemed to pacify the younger man, and his adopted father. Others of the council were better at hiding their thoughts, though for the moment Highwind seemed out of arguments. The brief period of quiet was brought to an end by the Princess of Fynn, her tone quiet and respectful as she spoke. “Would you be willing to bind him from using magic where the council might witness it? It would provide a measure of proof to your claims, should others not present demand it.”

She was clever, asking for what might be an easier to explain to the public and what Mysidia itself would no doubt request. A safer bet altogether, than asking to witness the entire process.

As though a human might comprehend the nature of binding a Lunarian to the deep sleep.

“Lost your desire for my blood, Princess?” He quirked a brow at her, amused when her mask fractured just enough for her to glare from the corner of her eye.

“I would not draw unnecessary conflict.” She kept her tone level enough. Turned her head enough to regard him without excluding Fusoya from the exchange, should he wish to speak. Well done. “If peace might be achieved in a manner that does not require blood be shed, then it is only desirable to pursue it. Even if the blood were to be yours.”

Willing to concede a measure of weakness.

He found her attempt at showing a higher morality to be entertaining.

If she sensed it, and perhaps she did, Hilda gave no sign. Rather she turned, addressing her fellows. “Is this a decision agreeable to all, should Sir Fusoya permit it?”

“Fusoya, please.” A glint of amusement lit the elder sage's eye, though he kept it from his voice.

Hilda inclined her head in apology, skilled enough to keep heat from rising to her cheeks at her blunder.

“So long as it's a guarantee.” Highwind’s voice was filled with grudging acceptance. He said no more as Gordon shifted to give his own assent. Mysidia's Elder gave her own, on the condition of Fusoya's own agreement to make part of the punishment within the scope of their view. Odin seemed to hesitate, but finally spoke in the affirmative.

Hilda turned to Fusoya once more, awaiting his response.

The Lunarian sighed, gently stirring wisps of his beard with the action. Violet eyes sought his own and he met them with an arched brow, refusing to lend the elder mage either an excuse to refuse or a verbal band of rope to hang him with.

“I will do as you ask, if that is the only request. I will not, however, make a torture out of it.” A warning edged the statement, perhaps leveled most towards the Dragoon and the Princess. The fact that he himself was not sure troubled him for a moment, but only for that.

“Will you need to prepare?” The Elder spoke as if she already possessed some idea, as she likely did, being a mage herself and the leader of a nation of such people.

“Yes. No more than a day, at most.” Fusoya's hands disappeared back into his sleeves as he moved them from the table. He recognized it as a sign that the other was excusing himself from further negotiation unless suitably approached, saw that Odin and the Elder recognized it as well.

“Then we are settled.” What might have been a thread of relief colored Hilda's voice, her posture seeming relieved of some burden as she moved. Her head turned once more to each head at the table, and once towards the quiet presence of the monk behind Fusoya. “Thank you all for what you have done this day.”

He might have commented on her willingness to consider the matter done – yet held his tongue. Further jibes would only be beneath him, given the situation. A day and he might have enough reserves to attempt his initial plan, easier as it might have been had the fools tried to kill him as they desired.

A prickle over his skin drew his gaze towards Kluya's eldest, finding the other's gaze fixed on him.

It quieted his slowly turning thoughts and he met the stare with a faintly quirked brow.

At the distance between them, it would not be unheard of for the younger male to attempt to glean his thoughts – particularly if his uncle personally oversaw that part of his education. He cursed himself for having allowed the proceedings to make his attention grow lax, though he retained some confidence that the other couldn't have guessed the exact scope of his thoughts on mere thought alone.

The monk continued to stare until the Elder spoke up, quietly interrupting what the Princess had been saying.

“Is it not too dangerous to leave him as he is? He has recovered a measure of his magic. Enough to cause trouble, even if he cannot escape.” Her eyes were focused on him, calm and serious even as Highwind snorted.

“Even at the height of his strength he couldn't have fought his way out of his own palace.” Mockery was thick in the Dragoon's voice, though it edged towards grudging acquiescence towards the end. “Bind him in a cell if you don't wish him to be addled with sunstroke on the morrow.”

“You are not a mage, though you've received some training, Richard of Deist.” The Elder did not turn to address the blond man, a note of reprimand in her tone. “Not all magic may be so strictly classified as black or white. It can still cause harm if left to the cleverness of its user, be they bound by iron and stone or the drop of a palace balcony.”

“My lady.” He dipped his head to her wisdom, such as it was, amused by the Dragoon's deepening frown at the suddenly polite exchange. The Princess' features became shadowed as if she were recalling something unpleasant, likely something she herself had witnessed while in his keeping. After all, she knew a measure of his talent – be it projecting an image of himself on a battlefield leagues away and still commanding spells or disguising a monster to bear her own countenance to confuse and betray her allies.

“A cell will suffice.” Once more, Kluya's son spoke up, the rumble of his voice almost soothing in its calm. “Measures can be taken to ensure he does not have the opportunity to cause harm.”

He found the other's certainty to be irritating, intriguing as it was.

“Intend to drain me yourself, do you?” The question rolled off his tongue sweetly as poison, which drew a warning stare from Fusoya.

Theodore, if the other still went by that name, gave no reaction – impassive as a mountain, gaze steady and patient. “If necessary. Only one need prepare to bind you sufficiently, should the need arise.”

It stung, but he didn't give the monk the pleasure of knowing it.

“To a cell then.” Leon moved at the unspoken command in the Princess' voice, armor clinking against itself as the man made his way around the table and the figures slowly rising from their seats. Fusoya stood tallest amongst them all, save for his eldest nephew who paused to have a hushed conversation with the elder Lunarian.

He did not shy away from the metal encased hand that grasped his arm, following direction given by the touch only so that he could turn the proceedings of the trial over in his mind without interruption. If the Lionheart found his silence suspicious, he said nothing as they made their way through his palace. The man only spoke once they were near to the dungeons, sounding thoughtful under his helm, giving no sign that the flickering torchlight or dreary surroundings bothered him. “You cannot have expected any other outcome than this – except perhaps a straightforward execution.”

He came back to the world at his own leisure, listening to the statement that doubled as a subdued question from his once almost-trusted right hand. Leon kept a hand on him as he opened the door of one of the cells – three walls bare, gray stone, the fourth the very bars that kept the cell closed off. A meager cot attached to one wall and a bucket in a corner the only furnishings, just as the Princess had been treated to.

He turned to face the Dark Knight as he was released, Leon hesitating to close the door to the cell even though his hand was upon it.

“Do you already possess doubts of your Princess' wisdom?” He pried almost gently, softening his voice to an almost intimate cadence. There was a nearly imperceptible loosening of the Knight's shoulders at the sound before the man caught himself – an interesting tidbit of proof that the other's conditioning may not have been as fully undone as others, Leon himself, may have thought. “Or are you seeking to reassure yourself that my throne will be free for the taking, if you are but patient enough?”

He smirked at the flinch that the Knight disguised so poorly, even at the grating sound of a gauntlet straining over cold iron bars.

“I do not - “ Leon began, but he cut the other off, allowing authority to pour into his tone in a manner he knew the Knight would find most familiar.

“Do not seek to lie. Not to me, when I made you as you are.” He thought the Lionheart might shrink back as he'd done in the early year of their forged alliance, both surprised and wary that the man forced himself not to.

Not broken then. Close to an edge, perhaps, but not yet willing to throw himself over.

“You have no power. Not any longer.” Defiance rose in Leon's voice, just shy of petulance and uncertainty. He must have spent hours repeating it to himself to have even that shred of confidence.

“We shall see. I have little doubt that I will be able to enjoy the cries of the worms before long.” He smiled, small and cruel, indifferent to Leon's harsh response – the slamming of the cell door only confirming that he'd struck true.

The heavy tread of one in armor faded from his hearing, leaving only silence in as its replacement. In a way, it was a balm. He had time to think, adjust his plans accordingly. The stiffness of the cot was a minor nuisance, but he refused to sit on the floor like a common insect even if it was only to think with the time he had.

-

It could not be longer than an hour that he was left alone, even that much had been ample opportunity to take stock of what he might be capable of – the truth of Highwind’s words at the trial still galled him. Getting out of the cell was not so much of a problem, but everything after that would invite some measure of difficulty. He could cast without a stave, the method was simple enough, but his reserves would not hold out long enough for him to battle his way out of the palace entirely.

Particularly not if it be required to face Fusoya and his nephew head on, as it likely would be.

In the slim chance of victory, it still left him without much method of transportation – barring the theft of either the rebel's airship, which would be docked on a higher floor and easier to access, or the Lunar Whale – if Fusoya had seen fit to leave it so close and completely unguarded.

The first tingle against his senses drew him out of these thoughts, he closed off his mind in wariness to better keep track of the newcomer. It felt less like the light pressure of mist he associated with Fusoya, even after so long distant from the elder's presence. Nor did it have the shifting eddy of the Mysidian Elder's magic, which left only one of any considerable magical presence.

Without several floors of stone and crystal separating them, the pressure of magical exhaustion hounding his senses, he could easily recognize the steadiness of the other mage. Easy to sense the destructive nature of the magic the other favored, like himself, though instead of sparse white magic Kluya's eldest seemed to have studied a touch of summoning magic instead.

An interesting choice.

“Have you found all that you sought?” The question was posed with no change in inflection, just the same unhurried calm as the other had used during the trial. He would confidently venture a guess that much of the half-Lunarian's nature was just the same – that of an observer, calculating the best choice to make before taking action.

“Enough to temporarily sate my curiosity.” He responded, only casting a glance towards the monk after he'd completed an idle examination of his nails. There was little change in the other's expression at his answer, not that he'd expected one. Quirking a brow, he posed a question of his own. “And what of your own inquiries? Have you found answers to your satisfaction?”

He was pleased not to see confusion surface in the other's tanned face, taking it confirmation of his own suspicions – that Kluya's eldest did not speak his questions so much as sought out the answers through other means, either by observation alone or the almost dismissible light touch of his mind and magic. A clever way to gather information without revealing that he was doing so, though he found himself hesitant to believe that it could have been Fusoya to teach his nephew such a method.

“Some.” There was a faint inclination of the younger man's head, bare feet making hardly any noise over the stone floor as he moved. “But perhaps you will humor further curiosity – exactly when did you think it might be appropriate to enact your plan to summon a creature of the other side?”

He paused at that, lowering his lashes slowly as all emotion bled from his face. The hand he had previously been examining uncurled, palm covering the slope of his knee as he crossed his legs. His visitor stopped moving, still a foot or so between his large figure and the iron bars, and considered him patiently as he waited for a response.

“Consider yourself humored then.” He kept his tone light, verging on what might be called playful. “Did he train you in the summoning arts or did you venture into it of your own accord?”

If the other was bothered by the roundabout he gave no sign of it.

“I've had several opportunities to learn.” Something flickered in shadowed violet eyes, and this time there was a miniscule amount of confusion within his voice when he spoke. “Why you did not make the attempt before our arrival at the trial surprises me. You possessed enough power to summon aid, if escape had been your intention.”

“To what end? Find myself in little better condition than when you first arrived?” He chuckled, not bothering to keep the faint mocking shift of tone hidden. “For all I dislike the Dragoon's lack of eloquence and tact, he nonetheless had a point.”

“Then you would need a reserve of energy in order to battle what you brought to the fore, and win, unless I am mistaken.” The other mage's gaze didn't waver a bit, the astuteness of his words skirting too close to the truth for comfort.

He kept the frown from his face, choosing to simply watch the other rather than reply.

The taller male continued, as if sensing the shift. “Perhaps it is because you did not expect Fusoya's direct involvement, at least not so soon, and you chose to rely on their doubt of me to fuel their desire for an execution. The time would have provided you with enough power to act at the moment necessary – cheating death is no easy feat, not even for you.” Pale hair shifted as the man tilted his head, tone smooth as stones worn by a river's current.

“Had you succeeded, even if in a slightly weaker state, my uncle and I would have had considerably more difficulty in containing you.”

He wasn't sure if that was meant to be the jibe it sounded like, yet it stung regardless.

“You seem confident in your conclusions. More so than I would have thought, given this is but our first meeting.” He drummed his fingers against his knee lightly. Tempting as it would be to make the attempt to suss out what the other was thinking through other means, he felt the time it would take would cancel whatever benefits might come from winning a mental battle such as that.

Unless his eyes were deceiving him, a faint smile curved Theodore Harvey's lips upward for a brief moment. It was soft, what another might call gentle, and it was gone a beat later.

“Your cleverness follows certain patterns, Mateus.”

“I do not recall giving you leave to refer to me in such informal terms.” He let his tone become arch, feeling his lips twitch with the desire to frown when the other lightly chuckled.

“Something amuses you?” He narrowed his eyes just faintly, allowed his voice to smooth out rather than letting his stirred temper get the best of him. He kept his back straight, hearing his hair rustle over his robes as he tilted his head just enough to emphasize the question.

“It is unlikely you will have the chance to move forward as you had intended. The title of Emperor is lost to you, even should you intend to wait out the events of the Blue Planet for the chance to attempt a return.” One broad hand gestured, graceful and unhurried. “You've no allies. Would it not be wiser to concede now than to struggle?”

“You do have a talent for persuasion.” He refused to rise to the bait, or give the other the satisfaction of seeing him consider. “Tell me, do you still dream of your master's instruction or have the years smoothed out the terrors in the shadows?”

Something closed off in the half-Lunarian's eyes, a subtle change in his stance all the reaction he received for the barb.

“You are stubborn, as he said.” Which 'he' the other didn't care to elaborate, slowly lifting a hand to the level of his midsection but stopping just before touching the bars of the cell. There might have been a trace of disappointment in his quiet tone. “I will ask you only once more. Will you concede?”

Words came to his mind, wards against the spell he believed the other thought to prepare. In a breath, he could cast them – but the question of outlasting the taller mage was irritatingly obvious in its answer.

The other's expression hardened somewhat when he no doubt sensed the magic gathering about his person, but he still waited.

“Reconsider your casting choice and I may.” He spared a wish, whimsical as it was, for his scepter, lost and unattainable to him now.

“Your previous actions do not leave you with such luxury.” A calm settled over the other, one he recognized instantly. The shape of a word started to leave the other's lips and he knew it immediately, casting his own enchantment in the form of a barrier – the Osmose spell ricocheting elsewhere, drawing a thin frown over the monk's face.

Sap was only slightly harder to counter, though he could not be entirely surprised by the flash of a ribbon absorbing the magic when he reflected it – to come any less prepared would have been foolish. Sudden pressure, an increase in gravity dragged him down from the standing position he'd had, cold stone meeting the hand he'd used to catch himself with. He gritted his teeth as the magic pulled at him, counter-spell forming on his tongue when the subsequent Osmose struck.

Immobilized, he felt the foreign essence tap his magic reserves like the sly fingers of a thief – pulling the energy from him and returning it to its caster. A pained noise threatened his control and he suppressed it with effort, a dull ringing in his ears as an annoying side-effect of the assault.

Heat flooded the narrow space between them, cell and all, the stones beneath the other mage glowing dully with reddish light. The Flare erupted upwards, displaced air rippling with the distortion of air in response.

Warp, of all spells?

Heat enclosed him as he processed the empty area before, the one he'd sought to push back now directly behind him. He felt the contact of skin narrowly ahead of the spell as it was cast, anger warring with disbelief as the enchantment manifested. Too late, with too little strength, he pushed back against the restraining figure – the hiss of alarm that left his throat becoming muted as the binding etched itself across his skin.

His magic strained, flickering at his draw on it but unable to answer as the sealing was completed. He pushed his will against it, searching for a catch in the apparently seamless spell, feeling his lips move though no sound emerged. Even straining the cords in his throat changed nothing, only silence emerging for all his effort.

The restraining hold on him did not waver as shock came through to the surface, sapping his concentration to fight.

It was utterly silent within himself, the absence of his own magic leaving him almost cold.

Fury replaced the numbness of shock, though for all he wrenched it seemed impossible to dislodge the half-Lunarian's hold.

“You've no one to curse but yourself, Mateus.” The words were soft, louder now that the taller mage spoke just above his ear. Indignant, he tried to twist his arms in the monk's hold, anger resurfacing when he found that to be impossible as well.

No one, not in scores of years, had dared _touch_ him.

Mute, he drew a thin breath in through his nose, slowly curling his fingers so that the edges of his nails pressed as sharply as they were able into the hands restraining him. The calloused fingers tightened in response, a warning rumbling up from the other's chest that he felt against his back. Heat touched his cheeks, indignant anger slipping his leash for that moment.

“Mateus.” The syllables of his name weren't growled, but it came close. “Must I send you to sleep until tomorrow as well?”

Setting his jaw, he fumed in silence before lifting his nails from the other's skin. The tiny red crescents were hardly adequate recompense for this insult to his person and pride, but it would have to do. For now. When the hold around his wrists finally loosened, he took the immediate chance to put distance between them – curling his lip faintly at the lack of satisfactory room to manuever before forcing his face into perfect smoothness. The little display had no effect on the other, besides a flicker in violet eyes that served as a reminder of the earlier warning.

“Tomorrow, you will be sealed into sleep. I would ask that you not make it difficult on yourself.” Despite the fading heat of their confrontation, the taller male kept his voice steadily calm.

He narrowed his eyes, keeping his face free of any emotion besides the thinning of his now useless lips.

The soft sigh that left Theodore was nearly lost in the sound of another Warp, he turned to find the man now outside of the cell, regarding him with a grain of weariness. He met the stare with one of his own, cooling his silent fury into ice. The binding of Silence held firm, likely to persist until it was time for him to be bound more permanently – absence of his magic tugging at his attention insistently.

Their staring contest was broken when the half-Lunarian turned away, departing with no further comment.

Silence absolute except for the rush of his own thoughts, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly. He would not be undone by this, no more than he had been by the string of circumstances that had led to this outcome.

The hours of the remaining day, and the eventual night, were long.

-

He woke, hyper-aware of the presence nearby now that his senses were strained to their limits. The hand that had nearly touched him paused, and he moved away from it as far as be was able. Something complicated flickered over the familiar tanned face, smoothing over as violet eyes regarded him. He stilled his breath into calm once more, resisting the temptation to raise a hand to his temple and apply pressure there.

It had been many years since he had last been Silenced, enough that he'd forgotten just how troublesome it was.

He sent a glance the other mage's way, watching as the broad figure straightened.

“It is morning. The spell will dissolve soon and you will regain your voice.” The smooth cadence didn't change, giving no hints to the owner's thoughts. “Should you attempt to cast, I will seal it once more.” The statement was accompanied by a level stare that he ignored, something like impatience lingering on the edges of his thoughts.

To have his voice back. His magic.

To have this farce over with.

He nodded, keeping his arms at his sides. Silver hair rustled with the action, messily slipping over his shoulders. It was apparently satisfactory enough and he followed the other when the monk negotiated the entrance of the cell. Once out, he stepped back from the hand that went to grasp his arm, meeting the quiet stare he received with a cool one of his own. The deadlock lasted for only a moment and he conveyed as clearly as he could the sense _don't touch me_.

One large hand, fingers calloused more from a sword than a stave, he realized, gestured towards the dungeon's exit. When the taller man moved, he reluctantly followed.

Their trek through the halls was silent, though he felt the binding of Silence beginning to loosen. He also sensed the watchful gaze his companion kept fixed on him. His magic did not return all at once – he felt it there at first, unable to reach for it until they had nearly reached their destination. He felt a brief surge of mocking humor that he was being lead towards the balcony that had first contained him, though it faded when he perceived the dark, massive bulwark of the Lunar Whale through the spotless windows.  
His legs paused without him telling them to, which stopped his watcher as well.

“It looks nothing like a whale.” He whispered, unable to raise his newly restored voice any higher. His companion heard him nonetheless, he was sure.

He reached within, testing, found his magic restored.

Theodore did not shift, but he felt the other's attention keenly.

Through the windows, he could see a small crowd of figures – easy to distinguish from one another. The Princess and her fellows, including the restored foursome of rebels and the lavender haired woman. Fusoya himself waited by the edge of the balcony, close to the closed portal of the Whale.

The elder Lunarian no doubt sensed them both, but made no move to spur them on.

If he did as planned, he would no doubt be stopped – either by an interrupting spell or a length of steel entering his body. The words from the previous night taunted him, as did the soreness lingering in his throat and temples. A bitter chuckle surfaced to his lips and he let it, ignoring the gaze of the man beside him for a moment.

An eternal imprisonment ahead – his body confined to deepest sleep and restraint while his mind might occasionally wake and wander, powerless unless he managed to tempt the hand of someone else into freeing him. A dreaming insanity, worse than outright death. Worse still, if Fusoya kept his word about leaving the Blue Planet and returning to the palace of Crystal that housed their brethren. He wondered, briefly, if he would be set aside like an unwanted toy – or if Fusoya might fear him coming into contact with Zemus' lingering will.

Surely the old man could not think him so deaf and foolish to have not sensed the creeping darkness of the trapped Lunarian's will, even if he had not answered it himself.

As if he would lower himself to being another's pawn.

“Do you truly believe that by sealing me you will remove all conflict from this planet?” He turned his head enough to regard Theodore's silent figure, canting his head to address the waiting assembly.

“What matters is that you will do more further damage.” The response was smooth, carefully pushing aside everything else in its simplicity.

He laughed, truly, briefly, amused.

The doors parted with a touch of the monk's hand, heads turning to watch their progress as he was lead out. He caught the flash of disbelieving anger on the young Firion's face, and others of his group, choosing to ignore them as Fusoya's figure grew closer.

None of the assembled heads of state spoke, leading him to believe the elder Lunarian likely had exchanged words with them already.

All the same, it was not a matter for worms to consider themselves with.

“Mateus.” The elder sage's voice was soft, gaze steady as they stopped just out of reaching distance of one another. “I trust this will not be made difficult?”

He remained standing straight, only faintly narrowing his eyes at the taller man. “Do as you came here to do, old fool. Lest the insects decide to try for you.”

He sensed the spike in hostility behind them, felt sure he knew the source of it as well. Fusoya said nothing in response though his face shifted towards something not unlike pity for the briefest of moments. He felt the urge to bare his teeth at that look, insulted that the other would dare show pity towards him.

“Very well.” Pale hands became visible as the other raised them from their position at his sides, long fingers tracing thin lines of light into the air. Fusoya spoke, unintelligible to the ears of humans unless they knew the words of the Lunarian's native tongue, and he felt power coalesce into being.

It struck him like a physical blow, not the hardest he recalled enduring, but it reached deep. Closed unrelenting pressure around the part of himself where magic had its origin and smothered it, eliciting an anguished cry from him as he resisted on instinct – senses pushed towards overload and each thrumming as though he'd been frozen and electrocuted all at once.

He came back to himself being supported by someone else, dazedly realizing that his legs had failed him completely at some point. The silver of his own hair once more obscured his vision, slowly returning as it was, temples throbbing harshly as he processed a voice speaking to him.

The word sounded familiar, but he was having the damnedest time trying to move his head to acknowledge it.

Warm skin touched his chin, gently lifting his head when it became apparent that he could not, a calloused thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as if wiping something away. Tanned skin, his mind processed haltingly. White hair, or silver. Violet eyes, a voice asking what might be the same question again.

The sunlight that crept into his eyes was painful in its intensity, uncomfortably warm. He tasted something warm and awful at the back of his throat and made the decision to shut his eyes before the too-bright light spurred him to further illness.

Next, he would be aboard the Whale, he knew. Placed in one of the pods Klu Ya had so painstakingly created to sleep until they reached the Crystal Palace. Fusoya would bind him there, or aboard the Whale if he didn't wish to wait.

“Pray for me.” He felt himself whispering, his own voice a croak to his ears. “If someone like you does, then perhaps someone will listen.”

The hand at his face moved, lightly brushing back some of the hair that had fallen into it – briefly lingering over the shell of his ear - and those same hands guided him into a standing position.

-

Aboard the Lunar Whale he felt those hands settle him into one of the pods, the tingle of magic flaring up and pushing him towards unconsciousness – a last sensation lingering in the form of warm lips pressing softly against his brow.

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by a friend based on the idea of meshing FFII & IV together, featuring the theory of Mateus being a Lunarian.


End file.
